Practice Makes Perfect
by Doll of You
Summary: Sherlock Holmes believed John Watson was his friend. He believed it with all of the heart he claimed not to have. John killed a man for him. If that didn't solidify a lifelong friendship, he didn't know what did. And there wasn't much he didn't know. At least, that's what he'd always thought. Never had he felt so utterly alone in the world when the real truth was revealed.


**Practice Makes Perfect  
(One shot)**

by

 _Doll of You_

Rating: T for coarse language and sex  
Pairings: Eventual Johnlock and established Mystrade

Takes place shortly before Irene Adler's second 'death'

* * *

This is my first FanFiction story, I tried to keep everyone in character as much as possible, so reviews and constructive criticism are welcome!

* * *

 **IF JOHN HAMISH WATSON THOUGHT** he could fool the deduction prowess of William Sherlock Scott Holmes, then he was wrong, the consulting detective decided while he lay in bed one night, taking a leisurely stroll through his mind palace.

He _would_ find out what was the matter with him, one way or another.

It had all started a couple of months after the blogger and the detective met none other than The Woman herself, the dominatrix, Irene Adler. The pale–skinned seductress had vanished out of the window of her extravagant London home when she drugged Sherlock with a potent narcotic which rendered him unconscious for hours, and delirious for many more. Lestrade had a video on his phone to prove it, and was rumoured to have posted it on Youtube.

And when she had died, everything went back to normal. Until it turned out she wasn't actually dead.

It didn't take a brilliant mind like Sherlock's to figure out that something about Irene unsettled John, yet he struggled to pinpoint exactly _what_ , something that frustrated him. The slight furrow in his lined brow when the erotic sigh ringtone emanated from his mobile phone (he had a tendency to count the number of times aloud), the hardening of his eyes when her name was mentioned in conversation, the hollow _crack_ of his knuckles as he clenched them tight when faced with a picture of her, the tightness in his voice when he was forced to talk of her.

At first it was the little changes in his mannerisms that bothered Sherlock. Little changes which would go unnoticed to others, but not him. He _was_ Sherlock, after all.

While he refused to openly admit it, the sleuth loved to read the blog his flatmate wrote about their cases together, even though the titles (who needs titles, anyway? The articles were pretty much self explanatory, unless you were an idiot… or Anderson. Same thing, right?) lacked originality, John wrote with a dry humour that always made a smile curve Sherlock's lips at the corners, though said humour was usually directed in the form of a sassy comeback at Sherlock when he pointed the titles out.

Sherlock was always the main subject in the blog. _Always_. Albeit sometimes it was just a chance for John could point out the flaws in his flatmate, for example his lack of knowledge of current world events (Prime Ministers? The solar system? Who cared? _Boring!_ ).

So when mentions of Sherlock grew few and far between, his response was curiosity. Gentle poking became harsh rebukes. He was referred to as 'him', nothing more. When confronted, John threw Sherlock a fierce glare over the top of his laptop, the last remnants of a ginger snap biscuit stuck to the light stubble on his chin, and told him to mind his own business, thank you _very_ much. And who was it that took the limelight from Sherlock?

None other than Irene Adler.

If the article wasn't about her, somehow the dark haired whip handler would slip her way through the cracks and taunt him, almost like she was gloating about having John's attention.

It was childish, Sherlock knew, but he found himself rather jealous and tried harder to keep John.

Another change was the fact that John was barely around anymore. This disturbed Sherlock even more than being derogated on his blog. Without him he felt… _strange_. Usually the pair were inseparable; lately he'd found himself alone in their shared flat, curled in his armchair in his dressing gown, staring at the empty armchair opposite, marked with the impressions of John's unique presence: the ring of spilt tea (Earl Grey, a splash of milk, no sugar) on the arm, biscuit crumbs crushed into the seat cushion (a variety of different brands, mostly rich tea or ginger snap, his favourites), a folded newspaper slipped in between the arm and the cushion (he would always cut out sections that talked about him or Sherlock, he glued them into a scrapbook when he thought no one was looking. Such sentimentality!).

John was seen with Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, and others. Wherever Sherlock was, John wasn't.

And he _hated_ it.

It hurt him, though he'd rather die than admit it. It left an aching gap in his chest, a hole that couldn't be filled with endless cups of coffee, violin playing, shooting the wall or sulking. Even teasing Mycroft about his failing diet did nothing to lift his mood.

Sherlock simply missed John. His best friend, his blogger, his doctor, his wounded soldier.

In his loneliness he resorted to the drugs again, visiting old dealers that lurked in alleys like snakes in the grass and welcomed his weakness, full of thin lipped smiles, slitted hungry eyes and eager clawed hands grabbing the money he pushed at them. He sat in a darkened room while he rid out his high, staring at nothing, and all he could think of was John with Irene. Were they together?

That time they'd been in the abandoned warehouse, he'd followed them, delirious and having very nearly overdosed from dangerous amount of drugs he'd consumed, watching from behind a wall, only being discovered when his mobile went off and receiving a scolding from John when he came home.

And the women. The _women_.

The thing that killed Sherlock the most inside was the women.

Sherlock knew John liked his girls. There'd been enough of them to tell him this. The doctor, the one with the spots, the one with the nose, the boring teacher…

When he rarely graced the flat with his presence, he had his arm locked around the waist of his newest girlfriend, although 'girlfriend' was a delicate term for one night stand; a fling for the next few hours. Sherlock understood that John had needs (stupid biological impulses, more like). Most of the time if he planned to spend the night with a woman, he went to their house until the morning, where he'd catch a cab back to the flat, sheepishly embarrassed in his rumpled day–old clothes, lips swollen and red, shadows of stubble lining his jaw, his hair tousled, smelling of hastily applied borrowed women's deodorant that did nothing to cover the odour of musky sex that strongly radiated off his person.

However, these days, that courtesy was _gone_.

Long after John's work hours at the clinic had finished, long after Sherlock, tired of waiting, had slunk off to his bedroom, the scrape of key in the lock would cause him to raise his head, quietly hopeful, then his heart would sink when the high pitched tones of a woman would penetrate the walls. John would pause outside Sherlock's door, his foot pressing on the loose floorboard that let out a soft squeak, press his ear to the wood, checking if he was asleep, shushing the excited whispers of the woman, smelling strongly of alcohol. Sherlock never made a sound, his lanky body hugging a pillow to his chest, chin resting over it, face covered by his dark curls.

He didn't know _why_ he remained silent. He thought if said something, the woman would leave and John would get angry with him. And so he'd keep silent, forced to listen to the two engage in coitus for a couple of hours, hear bed springs creak in protest underneath them, hear the woman's breathy moans and whimpers, hear John's exerted grunts, his groans of ecstasy reaching climax.

And all he could think of was that they all looked strikingly similar to Irene. The dark hair, the light eyes, the pale skin…

 **BANG!**

Sherlock bolted upright in the midst of his thoughts, torn from his mind palace when there was a loud noise. His immediate conclusion was that a burglar had broken into the flat, not that he'd find much to steal. They were not particularly well off. Sherlock's hand dipped into the drawer of his bedside table, long white fingers curling around the handle of a gun. More specifically, John's gun from his army service. He'd 'borrowed' it to shoot the wall earlier, with every intention of returning it later. He'd never notice it was gone. The metal felt cool against his hot palms, slick and sticky with sweat.

He wasn't worried for himself, he was worried for the safety of John, unsuspecting and sleeping in the conjoining room.

 **BANG, BANG, BANG!**

The noise sounded again. It was a distinctly wooden sound that rattled against the thin plaster of the wall.

The realization caused his heart to sink into his stomach. It wasn't a robber, it was John's bed frame. He was with a woman for the _third_ time that week.

 **BANG!**

There it was for a third time, punctuated by a slight shaky gasp, quivering on the edge of release. Sherlock let the gun return to its former spot in the drawer, among packets of spare violin strings and empty cigarette cartons. Before he knew it, he'd risen to his feet, legs numb and wobbling like a newborn lamb from staying in the same position too long, his robe clinging a little to his slim frame, clad in nothing else but a vest and his boxer shorts.

Part of him screamed at him to go back to bed; to hide away in his mind palace until both parties had slumped into an orgasm induced sleep, yet the other, bigger part was curious.

Despite being thirty six years old, Sherlock was _still_ a virgin. He wasn't really ashamed of the fact, or bothered by it that much. The opportunity had never presented itself in a person of interest, a fact Mycroft loved to bring up to spite him.

He paused outside John's bedroom door, noting that it was slightly ajar. Careful to stick close to the wall, so if either turned to look he would remain undetected, he peeked his curly head around the door, taking in the sight with wide eyes.

The woman was the first person he saw. Quite tall, probably a couple of inches under six foot, whip thin too, all jutting ribs and hips. Her body was almost boyish, with tiny buds for breasts and no noticeable curves to her frame. Her skin was milky pale in the dim light of the lamp; her features were cast in a soft glow. Large eyes the colour of seawater, surrounded by delicate lashes that cast spider–like shadows on her cheeks, bright and burning with lust. Her cheekbones were high, refined. Her lips were a little wide to fit her face, offset by her sharp angular features, especially her pointy chin, however were put into proportion by her regally straight nose. Overall she was pretty, if not a tad masculine. Sherlock didn't blame John for being attracted to her.

 _John_ …

He was on top, Sherlock had figured with a wry smile. He'd never imagine John would let himself submit to another person, he was too stubborn for that. There was something highly erotic about John at that moment, something Sherlock found _beautiful_. Underneath those God awful sweaters he wore, John was in shape for his age, his small body wrought with firm, toned muscle, except for the small pouch on his stomach, the result of taking too much pleasure in Mrs Hudson's pastry delights. His back was to his flatmate, muscles shifting visibly beneath tanned freckled skin, a thin layer of sweat coating his flesh. It matted in his sandy hair, tangled in a wavy mop atop his head. He kept up a constant pace with his thrusts, the covers wrapped around his lower body, although his buttocks were a tad visible, a dimple and a light smattering of downy hair right above the crevasse.

Suddenly the thrusts doubled in speed. A sort of whining began to emanate from the woman – Sarah, a name tag piled haphazardly on the floor would reveal, apparently he had a thing for Sarah's – and her mouth was formed into a perfectly shaped O. John tossed his head back, hands braced at either side of her head, fingers twisting up the material of the pillow. His bottom lip was clamped between his teeth, muting the moans that threatened to burst forth. He came with a husky cry of "Shit", his voice wavering, followed shortly by Sarah.

Sherlock noticed his hands were trembling as he gripped the door frame. He shifted back, away from the sight he was sure was burned onto the inside of his eyelids, unsure of the emotions which churned like an angry storm inside his chest, squeezing his heart in a vice.

Why did he feel so _bad_?

Was he ill?

He didn't have a fever, but he did have nausea, bile tickling at the base of his throat. He hadn't eaten for a couple of days, nor had he showered, unless you counted coffee, dry toast and a spritz of deodorant at the request of John, though that never usually bothered him.

John with a woman never usually bothered him.

Frustrated, Sherlock rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, when dampness spilled across his cheeks. With a jolt of surprise, he gazed at his wavering outstretched hands, dotted with tiny crystals.

Tears.

He was crying.

 _Sherlock Holmes was crying._

Confusion welled up, his brow furrowed. He was crying because… because John was with a woman?

A woman that looked like Irene, he corrected himself. Stupid Irene. Stupid meddling Irene. Stupid Irene getting in the way.

His eyes widened.

No.

 _No_ …

How had he not recognised the signs before?

He was in love with John. Sherlock loved John.

 _Love…_ Mycroft's words popped up in his mind.

 **"Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock. All hearts get broken."**

Sherlock realised he cared deeply for John. Always had since the moment he walked into his lab, accompanied by the ever jolly Mike Stamford. What was so special about this man, that drew him to him? His quiet demeanor, his odd idiosyncrasies, the wide smile reserved only for him, the stupid jumpers he wore, the warm tone in his voice. The way he didn't care if Sherlock was weird. In fact he defended Sherlock's weirdness. The quiet loneliness they both shared.

He loved John for John. But John didn't love Sherlock for Sherlock. He obviously wanted Irene. A quiet, guttural sob ripped from his throat before he was able to stop it when faced with the reality of his situation.

Ugh, darn feelings. _Stupid_ , unnecessary things. How he hated them, how they could mess with you and make you feel when you don't want to feel anything.

Alerted by the noise, Sarah's eyes snapped open to stare at the doorway, expecting to see someone, yet it was empty. She hadn't caught Sherlock ducking out of the way to slide down the wall onto the floor, hugging his knees to his chest for comfort. She shoved John, who had rolled to the side to revel in his post orgasmic bliss. He raised his head, eyes half lowered.

"What?"

"Did you hear something?"

John frowned, cocking his head to the side to listen. Nothing out of the ordinary caught his attention, just their laboured breathing. "No, I didn't. Why so jumpy? It's only us."

Sarah consciously pulled the blankets over her chest, cheeks flushed red, hair plastered against her forehead with perspiration. "I don't know. You said you had a flatmate and I thought he might have, _y'know_ , woken up."

John paused. He stared at the doorway, wondering if Sherlock _could_ really be hiding, unaware he was. His heart lurched uncomfortably, almost unnerved by the thought, and, as a glance below his waist would confirm, slightly aroused, a heat stirring in his groin for the second time that night.

"Who cares. It's just Sherlock," he said, nonchalant in an attempt to hide his anxiety. "He's probably jacking off to pictures of a triple murder in his bedroom. Forget him."

Sherlock's heart broke into a million pieces at that exact moment when he watched John take the woman into his arms for a second time, his lips pressed against hers, thoughts of his friend quickly banished while lust overtook him. Tears spilled uncontrollably down Sherlock's face. He did not attempt to stop them.

He felt _everything_ , and it hurt more than he could have imagined.

Unable to bear it, he used their distraction to slip on his slippers and scarf, and left the flat as soon as he could, into the frigid December night. If John was to look out of the window, he'd see the tall, spindly figure of his friend, shoulders hunched against the shivers that gripped him and sobs that shook him.

He believed John was his friend. He truly believed it. John had killed a man for him on the day after they met. If that didn't solidify a long term friendship, he didn't know what did.

John was the only one to put up with Sherlock and not complain about it. At least he thought that.

Never, _never_ had he felt so truly alone in the world.

* * *

 **IT WAS THREE O' CLOCK** in the morning when Mycroft Holmes heard a knock at the door.

He had fallen asleep in his armchair by the fireplace, a tumbler of whisky clutched in one hand, a dying cigarette in the other, documents and thick manila folders stacked precariously in his lap. The fire had kindled low, casting a lackluster glow on the tired British politician, the lines etched into his skin appeared far deeper than usual, his eyes world weary, the hair on his head thinner than he liked.

With a grunt and a curse that belied his usual graceful self, Mycroft heaved himself out of the chair, quickly getting rid of the remains of the pain au chocolat he'd eaten earlier; he swept the crumbs into the bin and dusted off his suit jacket, careful not to miss any out. He was supposed to be on a diet, but sometimes the lure of delicious pastry delights from the local bakery around the corner was too much to pass up. And he _was_ a stress eater.

When he opened the door, the last person he expected to see was his little brother. Especially his little brother in _tears_.

Sherlock's cheeks were tinged red, covered in thin silvery tracks. His nose was red as well, nostrils covered with dried mucus. It had recently started to rain; his hair was stuck to his forehead, his body shivering hard, what rather small amount of clothes he wore plastered to his thin frame.

He looked pathetic, and normally Mycroft would have laughed, yet something told him now was _not_ the time; to put their sibling rivalry aside for a moment and to care for his brother, even if tomorrow he received gripe for it. Growing up with Sherlock meant that he was able to tell the different between the manipulative tears he displayed to get his own way, and when he was truly in distress.

And he was _definitely_ distressed at that moment.

He simply opened his arms to Sherlock, who immediately rushed into them, finally releasing the sob he'd been holding, head buried into Mycroft's shoulder.

" _Stupid_ boy, what are you doing in the rain? You'll catch your death. Mummy would _kill_ me if I let you get hypothermia," he chided softly. Sherlock didn't respond, face hidden, partly embarrassed and partly relieved he had someone to hold. It was clear the brothers had never seen eye to eye, however were there for each other when needed. His damp curls tickled Mycroft's cheek, causing him to peel his brother off him and inspect him with a tut.

"You're pissing wet through, Sherlock. And you _stink_. When's the last time you showered? Come on, let's get you a bath and to bed before you ruin my carpets. They're new."

Sherlock managed a weak laugh, his quivering lips pulled up at the corners, albeit briefly. He stood like a kicked, wounded dog in the hallway, and allowed Mycroft to remove his dressing gown in a surprisingly gentle gesture and put it on the radiator for Anthea, his assistant, to collect later to be dried, then he was lead upstairs to the bathroom.

He sat on the closed toilet seat lid, still sniffling, while the bath was drawn by his brother, who looked older than he he last seemed, like his job was finally catching up to him. He dumped various expensive lotions and salts in that probably cost more than Sherlock earned in a year from his cases, his expression neutral. When the bath was filled, the soothing scent of lavender and mint pervading his nostrils, Sherlock glanced to Mycroft as a signal for him to leave, only to be met with a raised eyebrow and a typical sigh.

"For _God's_ sake, I've seen you naked before, Sherlock, I used to bathe you as a baby. You shouldn't be left alone at the moment. I don't want you drowning yourself in my bath."

With an indignant huff, Sherlock tugged off his shirt, slippers, scarf and boxer shorts, grateful when Mycroft relented and turned his head to the side, looking back when he had sunk into the bubbly contents of the bath. The hot water felt like heaven, it helped subside his shivers.

Ignoring his protests, Mycroft grabbed a facecloth from the side of the bath, dampened it in the sink, and began to scrub his face, cleaning away the dried tears and snot, with Sherlock making the face of a pouty child. When he was done, Sherlock's face raw and pink and clean from the excessive scrubbing, the older man laid the cloth down, perching on the edge of the bath.

"Now, are you going to tell me why you're here? Have you killed someone? Do you need to be put in witness protection? Do you have a case that requires my assistance, or breaches national security? A lover's quarrel with your boyfriend?"

The hurt which immediately radiated from Sherlock's eyes and the way his lips were pulled into a frown revealed to Mycroft he wasn't too far away from the truth. The older Holmes sibling had always thought there was some sort of strange attraction between the two men. It fascinated him. He'd never identified his brother as gay: Sherlock didn't really like anyone to a romantic level, he'd noted, though that changed soon enough.

While not as observant as his sibling, Mycroft wasn't stupid enough not to realise Sherlock was falling in love with John, probably against his better intentions. He was so joyous when his blogger was around, and so lonely when he wasn't. He'd seen the smiles reserved only for him, the giggles they'd share, the gaze in his eyes, the gaze of a man who'd found a person he adored with every inch of his soul, every fiber in his being, as much adoration as a heart could possibly contain, and more.

"What's he done?" Mycroft asked, his tone barely above a whisper.

"I – I… he brought a woman home with him tonight. Sarah."

Sherlock broke off to swallow the lump that formed in his throat, mind invaded by images of her, how she clung to John as he pushed her over the edge of climax.

"They woke me up… I thought someone had broken in. It was just the bed frame banging against the wall. I… I wanted to check for sure that he was okay, so I got up and looked in the room, and…" His eyes burned, hot fresh tears springing from them. He angrily wiped them away, hissing when he got soap into them. Mycroft passed him the facecloth wordlessly. "I've never felt that way about it. I felt _betrayed_ and sad and frustrated… I kind of wished it was _me_." His words quavered while he struggled to contain his emotions. "He made fun of me, My. He said I was probably jacking off to pictures of a triple murder scene."

"The _bastard_ … and were you?"

"Were I what?"

"Jacking off to pictures of triple murder crime scenes?"

" _No!_ Mycroft!"

"Just checking, Sher." Mycroft ran a hand over his bristly chin, mentally noting to shave at the next opportunity. The pain drawn clear across Sherlock's face tugged at his heartstrings.

He didn't look thirty six, he looked like a hurt little boy that had lost something dear to him. It was like Redbeard all over again.

This is the man Mycroft hated yet loved more than his own life at the same time, the man who'd caused him so much trouble over the years, yet he'd happily (and mock begrudgingly) do anything for, the man who'd stolen the attention of their parents for being a genius, yet he'd treat him like the most precious thing he had in the world, which was true.

"It hurt _so_ much," Sherlock whimpered. "It still hurts. To love someone and for them not to know it, but to unwittingly flaunt it in your face. Getting shot would hurt less."

"At last you admit it," Mycroft snorted. "It only took you _this_ long."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion, he didn't quite understand. "You knew…?"

"Sherlock, quite frankly, and I'm saying this in the kindest way possible, it was _blatantly_ obvious."

The younger man hung his head with a sigh. "You were right, Mycroft. Caring _isn't_ an advantage. All hearts get broken."

"Don't be so _melodramatic_ , brother." Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, wide eyed, his tall lanky body unfitted to the small bathtub. "Those were the cigarettes and the booze talking. I'm a little… loose lipped… on holidays. In your case, I think caring _is_ an advantage, and that it's good your heart gets broken at least once."

Sherlock's glance became an angry glare, his cheeks flushed with indignation. "You're happy that I came to you crying my eyes out?"

" _If you'd let me bloody finish!_ "

"Fine. You may continue."

"Thank you. Sherlock, as brilliant as you are, your downfall is your ignorance of your own feelings, it's almost as remarkable as your knowledge. Caring is an advantage because it reminds you that in times when you feel alone, you have friends to care about, especially the likes of our dear Dr Watson, and that in return, you _are_ cared about too. And getting your heart broken at least once tells you that you _have_ a heart, Sherlock, something you try to tell yourself you don't, because that's what everyone else does. You think numbing yourself will prevent you from feeling, when in actuality, it just hurts _more_."

There was a long pause while Sherlock digested the information, until his lips finally quirked into an amused smile. "Who knew you were so in touch with your feelings, Mycroft."

"Daytime reality television shows, you pick some of it up in the end. Jeremy Kyle in particular is very insightful on matters of the heart, though his guests collectively lack teeth and the ability to speak discernible English."

"Don't I know it."

The two brothers sat in silence for a moment. "Mycroft, what am I going to do? I believe he might be in love with Irene Adler."

"Long gone and still meddling with people's lives, that sounds like Miss Adler all right."

"Mycroft, I'm _serious_. She's all he ever talks about, even the women he sleeps with look like her."

"Did it ever occur to you John might be _jealous_ of Miss Adler's affections for you? It's pretty obvious she was smitten."

"No. He… John wouldn't be jealous. _Why_ would he? That would require him to…" Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, dark brows drawn together.

"Just food for thought. Tell him, Sherlock. Tell him you love him."

" _No_ ," was Sherlock's immediate answer, snapped from between gritted teeth. "Not a chance. John isn't… he's not…"

" _Gay_?" Mycroft finished for him. "He doesn't have to be gay for him to understand that you have feelings for him on a romantic level. Would you rather continue this vicious cycle? Because I'll leave you in the rain next time."

"…No."

"If you tell him, it'll clear the air. Get rid of the awkwardness. You can go back to the friendship and whatnot knowing you've not missed out. Maybe he'll return the feelings. Those sweaters _do_ give off the wrong impression."

"You're impossible."

"Purposefully. Now, come on, out. You're starting to look like a shrivelled prune. An unattractive shrivelled prune. It's obvious which Holmes brother inherited the good looks."

He chuckled, stood and wrapped himself in the fluffy pristine white towel handed to him by Mycroft, then was lead to the spare bedroom. It was a spacious room, the bed already made, a fire dancing among a nest of thick logs, sea blue pajamas with an intricate bronze brocade pattern across the material laid out across the covers. A crease appeared in Sherlock's forehead.

"How did you know I was coming? I didn't call in advance and you must have been asleep before I got here."

A smile ghosted on Mycroft's lips. "I didn't know. I always ask Anthea to prepare the guest bedroom for you, just in case."

" _Mycroft…_ "

"Don't get sentimental on me, Sherlock, there's been too many tears for me tonight."

"Another day, perhaps. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

"Oh, and Mycroft? When did you plan to tell me you were seeing Lestrade?"

Mycroft, having turned his back to walk away, felt his eyes bulge in their sockets and glanced at Sherlock, his expression one of confused horror. "I – you – _what?_ "

"Please, I may be ignorant, I'm not that ignorant. Don't insult my intelligence."

"How?" he asked tiredly.

"The healing love bite on your neck is a good place to start." Mycroft's hand immediately jumped up to touch the purpling, tender ring of flesh nestled into the cusp of his throat. "While not unusual in itself, it has stubble burn around it, which certainly wasn't inflicted by a woman, unless you're into _that_. And I'm pretty sure your sexual tastes are a lot less wild. Therefore it suggests it was made by a man with stubble. Secondly, when I first came in, I spotted your open address book on the side. You had a dinner date earlier this night, with a phone number underneath. Lestrade's phone number. _With a heart around it_. Plus you stink of his cheap aftershave. And your lips are swollen with, let me see, more stubble burn. On top of that, I can hear him snoring from your bedroom."

Silence. " _Goodnight_ , Sherlock."

Masking a smile, the detective gently shut the door behind him and fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

"John…"

John didn't want to wake up. He was perfectly comfortable curled in ball under the blankets, head burrowed into the pillows to block out the sunlight that streamed through the crack in the windows. He had a slight hangover, nothing that couldn't be cured by a big greasy fry up and a hot pot of tea.

"John?"

Sherlock. John cracked an eye open and was met with the blurry sight of a dark head of curls and those familiar sea blue eyes, and that flawless alabaster skin he ached to mark. Now that was a sight admittedly worth waking up for.

Okay. John knew he _wasn't_ gay. He wasn't. He'd never been attracted to a man… until he met Sherlock Holmes. God, how he wanted him that day. _Badly_. He remembered it with a frightening clarity. That memory would never leave him. His tall thin frame, clad in the smart little suit, bent over the microscope, his face shielded by those gorgeous ringlets. And those _eyes_. He almost drowned in them. Often he'd find himself daydreaming what it would be like to see his reflection in them as he plowed Sherlock's virginal body into the mattress.

" _John!_ "

"For God's sake, what is it, Sherlock?" John snapped as his vision came into focus, and he realised his mistake with a horrified gulp. It _wasn't_ Sherlock, it was the girl he'd slept with the night before. What was her name? Sam? Sally? Sarah! She was nice, and it was an added bonus that she bore quite a resemblance to Sherlock, in a decidedly more feminine way.

"Sherlock? _Sherlock?_ " Sarah shrieked, causing him to wince. "Your flatmate?"

"Sarah, it isn't—" He reached out to placate her, only to have his hand slapped away in disgust. She collected her clothes from around the room and shoved them on, fuming silently while John remained in bed, mortified by his slip of the tongue. He ran a hand through his sandy waves, unsure how to make it up to her.

"I – I'll call you later, yeah?"

"Don't bother," Sarah hissed, her tone seeped in venom. She stormed out of the room, her chocolate brown spirals swinging behind her.

" _Fuck!_ " John swore loudly.

"John, dear, you shouldn't use such language, you could give an old lady like me a heart attack!" came the motherly voice of Mrs Hudson. John swore again and stumbled over himself as he pulled on his discarded clothes. "I hope you don't mind, I let myself in. I brought you today's newspaper as well, and some biscuits. Only this once, though, I'm not your maid."

"No, no, that's fine. Thank you," John forced a smile, walking out into the kitchen area, tugging on a sweater, too tired to make an effort. Mrs Hudson aimed a bright smile at him, full kettle in hand.

"I couldn't help notice a very pretty girl leave here looking rather upset. What have you done, John Watson? Ginger snap?" she chastised lightly. John muffled a groan of frustration, taking a ginger snap when it was offered to him.

"It was nothing. Just – just nothing. Don't worry about it, Mrs Hudson. It's sorted."

"If you're sure, dear. Do you know where Sherlock is today? I haven't seen him at all. You haven't had a little domestic, have you?"

John frowned around a mouthful of biscuit. "What do you mean? Isn't he in his room?" he muttered, a hand going to swipe the crumbs away. He washed the mouthful down with a hot cup of tea.

"No, dear. I checked when I came in."

"That's odd. He never goes out unless it's for a case, especially not when it's still morning. He _detests_ mornings. I know he hasn't gone shopping because he likes it when I get frustrated with the self–service tills."

John immediately got out of his seat to stand in front of Sherlock's bedroom, ignoring Mrs Hudson's question of if he wanted some of the scones she made. He wasn't allowed to go in there without express permission, unless he liked having doors slammed in his face. Tentative, he pushed open the door to glance inside. It was unnaturally clean, not a thing out of place.

The periodic table poster on the wall, the simple decor (nothing too fancy), the Chinese lettering over the bed, the likes of which took up most of the space because it had to inhabit his long lanky body, the bookcases overflowing with books, the pressed insects, the statues of various diplomats.

It was all so Sherlock. It was the one place he could feel at home, where he could be himself. To relax in his own little paradise before he put on his smiling mask for the next day. Sherlock's struggle to interact normally in a social environment was evident, and this was his private place, where he could be unsociable to his hearts' content.

An uneasy feeling gripped his chest and robbed him of breath. He put it down to just worrying for Sherlock (the man could barely make himself toast without setting the kitchen ablaze, how could he get safely around London?), though there was something else which niggled at the back of his mind. He fiddled with his hands, unsure what that niggling was, when he noticed a slight tremor. He shoved his hands into his pockets, exhaling a soft breath.

"Sherlock, dear, there you are! Oh, and don't you look _smart_! If I was thirty years younger, I'd eat you up in a heartbeat!"

John, without another thought, rushed to the doorway to see Sherlock stood there, and couldn't deny the way his heart soared and pounded, like it was trying to escape.

He looked… _clean_. That was surprising.

His hair was glossy and newly washed, dried in soft curls around his head like a dark halo. His skin was flushed with a healthy glow, and his eyes shone serenely from underneath his fringe. He wore a suit, but it was slightly too small for him, except around the stomach, where it hung loosely. In one hand he held a bouquet of flowers, including lilies, roses and sunflowers, in the other a plastic carrier bag overflowing with packets of ginger snap biscuits.

"Where have you been?" John blurted, feeling a tad guilty when he sounded accusing. Sherlock glanced at him with an arched brow.

"Mycroft's. And the shopping center."

" _You_ were at _Mycroft's_?"

" _And_ the shopping center. That's what I said."

"And that's his suit. On you. _Right_. In that case, if I were to go to his house now, I'd find him healthy and well, as opposed to a dead body?"

"Well, that would give me the opportunity to, how did you put it so eloquently, _jack off to a crime scene_? Even better in person, right? Shame it would be a single rather than a triple."

" _Sherlock!_ " came Mrs Hudson's shocked voice. John's retort was lost, his expression horrified.

"You were awake last night."

"Yes."

"You heard me and Sarah."

"Yes."

"You were stood outside listening."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, I didn't—" He trailed off. No words could explain how bad he felt, knowing that his best friend's feelings were hurt. He toyed with a loose thread in his jumper, refusing to look at him.

"You didn't mean it? I know, John. You see, I _know_ now." Sherlock's grin became lopsided, his eyes kept the same sereneness to them. "You love me. I brought you tokens of affection. That's what it told me to do on the Internet." He shook the bag, filled with John's favourite brand of biscuits, and offered the flowers.

There was utter silence in the flat, even from Mrs Hudson, who's eyes had widened comically. John's mouth flopped open, nothing came out except a soft strangling noise. Sherlock saw this as a sign to continue, growing excited while he gained momentum.

"I see it, John, I _see_. Originally I thought you hated Irene Adler, but then it almost appeared like you were in _love_ with her, because you always talked about her even when she wasn't relevant to the conversation, and you kept meeting up with her, especially that one time you _vehemently_ denied being gay or in love with me."

"Sherlock, you—"

"And you kept sleeping with all those women who bore a resemblance to Irene, though it was never more than a one night stand."

"Oh, John, I hoped you used protection," Mrs Hudson dithered.

"He did. The empty condom wrappers are all in the bin, hidden under the rubbish where he thought I wouldn't look. Not that he was _usually_ so tactile about his bedroom affairs of late."

"Oh, well, that's good, at least."

"And I went to Mycroft's for advice on the matter, when he put forward the idea that you were possibly _jealous_ of the fact that Irene was in love with me, I was just too ignorant to see it. That's when everything clicked into place." He took a step closer, and John self consciously stumbled backwards.

"You were jealous. You wanted _my_ attention, and thought the only way to get it was to talk about Irene to me and in your blog. I tapped into her phone with a little help from a certain government official. Your conversations were about _me_. She was advising you on how to try and forget me, because she was trying to do the same. One of those pointers was to try and sleep with a bunch of women to get me off your mind. However, that's when, upon closer inspection, I realized that the women slowly started to have characteristics that fit _me_ , in particular the hair and eye colour, as well as height and weight. You were practicing for the day we could finally be together, John. _Practice makes perfect_ , because that's what you wanted it to be."

"Maybe… maybe I should go," Mrs Hudson muttered, clutched her hand to her chest and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

"John, distancing yourself from me won't change the fact that you're in love with me."

" _You arrogant dick, I'm not—_ "

"You're going to continue to deny it?" Sherlock had John pinned against the wall in a second, before he had a chance to react. John was strong, but his distraction allowed the taller man to grasp his hands and hold them above his head, entrapping him. John's breath caught in his throat, too shocked to attempt an escape, eyes wide as he blinked up at Sherlock.

"Your body gives you away, John, despite how hard you fight your natural urges. Your pupils are dilated, your pulse is racing, you're practically radiating pheromones and you're breathing like you've run the London marathon."

"You're pressing me against a wall, forgive me if I'm a little nervous."

"Well, are you ready to admit it? I know I'm right."

John allowed his head to drop, chewing his lower lip. "Sherlock, I – it's not as simple as that, okay? Before I met you, I'd never given a second thought to the possibility I might be… _you know_. Anything other than straight. I'd always loved women. But then you came along, and you threw me, and my emotions are in a mess and _yes_ , you're right, I admit I _was_ jealous of the attention Irene showed you, and how you seemed so interested in her… I followed her advice, if I convinced myself I _didn't_ like you by sleeping with other girls the feelings might go away, they didn't, they just grew stronger and I… I don't know."

Sherlock's eyes were intense pools of blue as they ingested John's words. "You will deprive yourself of love because you're worried about the fact I'm a _man_?"

"No, it's not just about _that_! If it doesn't work out, I'll lose the friendship, and I _couldn't_ deal with that, all right?" John's voice wavered. He refused to speak for several seconds, mouth set in a hard line while he composed himself. "I was so, _so_ alone before we met. Living in that tiny box for a house, with barely enough money to get by, everyone thought I was crazy because of the limp, with no one there for me, ready to _kill_ myself at any given moment. And there was _you_ – this big shining light of _brilliance_ in the dark and you were lonely too and I couldn't help feeling something for you. I couldn't help worry for you either, just think how Mycroft would react—"

"Mycroft is in no position to judge me, he's having sex with Lestrade behind both of our backs."

"Wait, _what_?"

"It doesn't matter. _I want you, John Hamish Watson._ Mind, body and soul, I want you. No, I _need_ you like I need oxygen. You'll _never_ be alone if I can help it. For once, stop caring about what others want and start thinking about what _you_ want."

There was complete and utter silence in the room while the two men engaged in a heated staring battle, the only sound was John's scared, fluttering breaths. Sherlock slowly brought one hand down to gently grasp his flatmate's chin, tipping it up so their faces were inches apart, inhaling and exhaling in sync. The smell of the flowers were heavy in the air, an intoxicating aroma that heightened both their senses. Each touch was like a burst of electricity running through their limbs, each gaze was like the universe stopped around them. Unable to bear the tension any longer, John stretched up on his tiptoes and pressed his lips to Sherlock's, whispering, " _I want you, Sherlock._ "

The kiss wasn't perfect by any means, not rehearsed and smooth like they'd both hoped, but it was imperfectly perfect. Sherlock lacked experience in the romantic, as he stayed awkwardly still during the kiss, not moving at all, his eyes half lowered. John released his hands from Sherlock's grip and used one to cup the younger man's left cheek while the other tangled into the mass of curls in the nape of his neck, pulling him closer and inciting a pleased mewl. Sherlock rested his hands respectively on John's hips, looping his fingers through the hoops of his belt, briefly brushing against the sensitive skin of his stomach, which caused John to shiver. Sherlock's tongue eagerly pushed and lapped at John's lips, seeking entry. He submissively parted his mouth, when…

"Sorry to interrupt, I forgot my handbag – _oh_!" Mrs Hudson clapped a hand to her mouth, surprised to find her two tennants caught in a very passionate embrace. "Shall I… come back later?"

"I recommend that you don't, Mrs Hudson. John and I will be busy for the rest of the night… _practicing_." He noted with satisfaction the soft blush that spread across John's cheeks.

"Right… I might as well use the opportunity to nip out to the shops, in that case. Would you like anything? How about some biscuits, John, dear? I know you like ginger snaps."

John weakly gestured to the discarded plastic bag, the packets of biscuits rolled haphazardly across the floor, crushed underfoot. "Um, no, thank you. I think I'm covered for a while."

Mrs Hudson nodded with a fond smile. She took her handbag, waved, then left. John glared playfully up at Sherlock. He secretly took satisfaction in Sherlock's appearance, how his curls were even messier than usual, how his upper lip was swollen and red because the skin was so delicate, the bright wildness in his eyes. He grabbed his hand and started to lead him into his bedroom.

"Finally, a chance to get that _hideous_ sweater off you," Sherlock mused.

" _Prick_ ," John grinned back.


End file.
